


black eyes, bandages and bloody knuckles

by concavepatterns



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sexy Times, with flashbacks to pre-serum Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 09:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4871803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concavepatterns/pseuds/concavepatterns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Bucky says “Jesus, Rogers” out of pure exasperation, and one time he means it in a completely different context.</p>
            </blockquote>





	black eyes, bandages and bloody knuckles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mischiefgoddesscomplex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mischiefgoddesscomplex/gifts).



> Thanks to Mischiefgoddesscomplex, the Planet Hulk comics, and a recent re-watch of CA:TWS, these two have quickly elevated to OTP status in my books. Which meant that I had to write a thing :)

**I.**

Steve treats him differently, at first.

Bucky knows he’s not the person he used to be - couldn’t go back to that even if he tried - but he’s not the Winter Soldier any longer either. He’s floating somewhere in between, trying to make sense of the face he sees in the mirror. Trying to find a purpose.

Sometimes it’s hard and painful and feels so fucking _hopeless_ , his frustration bleeds through the carefully closed-off expression he’s taken to wearing – just as much a shield as the one Steve carries – and he’ll find his fist punching a hole through the drywall or he’s suddenly three bottles deep in vodka and still doesn’t feel a _fucking thing_ , and it’s Steve who always finds him, wiping the blood from his knuckles (always flesh-and-bone; never metal – he wants to _feel_ the impact) and the tears from his face.

Steve speaks to him in soft, encouraging tones. Treats him like _he’s_ the breakable one when Bucky knows that he could have Rogers pinned to the wall, cool metal fingers tightening around his throat, all too damned easily. It’s something Bucky doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand a hell of a lot right now – about himself, about his place in this century, about functioning as a person and not a soldier or a weapon - but the way Steve treats him takes top spot on that list.

It comes to a head when Steve’s cooking breakfast one morning, asking in that gentle, concerned voice whether he’d like his eggs scrambled or sunny-side up, and something inside Bucky breaks.

“Jesus, Rogers,” he snaps, “would you quit that?”

Steve looks stricken, staring at him in stunned shock, and there’s something in his eyes – hurt maybe? _Fuck_ – and Bucky’s anger melts into a quieter, defeated kind of annoyance as he tries to piece together the words to explain.

“Just...talk to me like a normal person, would ya? That’s all I’m asking,” he hunches his shoulders, eyes downcast because he can’t take another second of that puppy dog look on Steve’s face.

“Like a normal person,” Steve repeats slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. Sorry, Buck.”

“S’okay,” he mumbles and when he dares to raise his eyes, Steve’s sliding a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him before dropping down into the seat opposite Bucky.

It’s like the air has shifted and an unnoticed tension’s been broken by his outburst. Steve somehow looks lighter now, less haunted, and it relieves some of the heavy weight pressing on Bucky’s own chest.

“Finish all of that,” Steve says, pointing his fork towards Bucky’s plate, “or I’ll kick your ass.”

It had started with the depression, then soldier’s rations, and HYDRA hadn’t given a damn – they were just going to throw him back on ice anyway – so for as long as his muddled memories would allow him to remember, food had always been an afterthought to Bucky. And it shows, he knows. It shows in his pale face. In the heavy bags under his eyes. In the fog of exhaustion that clouds his head like thick cobwebs.

Steve’s voice is light but his expression says that he won’t hesitate to follow through on the threat, and it’s almost enough to make Bucky smile.

That’s more like the old Steve, the Steve he thinks he remembers in the back of his fucked-up mind, the Steve who hassled him and supported him but never coddled him, and when Bucky shovels a forkful of egg into his mouth and looks up with a dry expression that says _happy now?_ , Rogers is hiding a big, dumb grin behind a glass of orange juice.

* * *

 

**II.**

It’s raining; coming down in thick, cold sheets, and Bucky’s pacing in the sitting room, wearing a hole through the already threadbare rug.

He isn’t sure how long he waits before the door finally opens and in comes a soggy Steve Rogers, the collar of his too-big jacket pulled up against the rain as he drips puddles onto the floor. If it were anyone else, Bucky would be shoving them and their muddy shoes towards the kitchen (he can practically hear his Ma’s horrified gasp at the thought of all that dirt on her rug), but because it’s Steve, Bucky knows she won’t mind.

Only it isn’t his friend’s rain-soaked state that first catches Bucky’s attention. No, it’s the busted lip and slight limp to his walk.

“Jesus, Rogers,” he automatically reaches for Steve’s elbow, directing him towards a chair crammed into the corner of the room. “What the hell happened to you?”

He doesn’t expect a real answer, so it’s no surprise when Steve only shrugs. “Nothing. Ran into a guy, is all.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, dragging a hand over his face. “You gotta stop picking fights, Stevie. Some day you’re gonna get yourself in way over your head.”

“It’s fine,” Steve insists, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and wincing when he catches the split on his lip. “I had him on the ropes.”

Christ, the kid really is gonna get himself killed one day, Bucky thinks, but still, he can’t help the slight grin of affection tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You always do,” he says softly. “Now let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

* * *

 

**III.**

They're in Russia - the northern-most point of Nizhneyansk - and the chill of the wind off the ocean is brutal, frigid enough that Steve's nose is pink, but Bucky feels nothing. His only focus is the mission as he waits -  tucked behind one of the shipping containers lining the fishing docks, vigilant and sharp-eyed - for Romanoff to give a command from where she's stationed in a warehouse at the edge of the bay.

"дерьмо́." Their comms crackle as Natasha swears quietly before saying louder in English, "We've got a problem, boys. There are hostages in there."

"So we change the plan," Steve says immediately. Naturally. Like it's no surprise that things have gone south this quick. He's faced worse. They've _all_ faced a hell of a lot worse. "Nat, can you create a distraction to draw out the bratva? Just get them visible enough for Bucky to take a shot, and I'll go in for the hostages."

"Negative," Natasha says grimly. "There's too many – at least a dozen. They won't all be stupid enough to chase me."

Steve blows out a long breath that hangs in the air before the wind sweeps it away. "Then I'll go in anyway. Catch them off guard."

"Steve-" Natasha starts, but he cuts her off.

"I've got the shield. I'm less exposed. It makes sense, Natasha, and you know it."

Steve's earpiece is quiet for a long time, humming with static until Natasha finally answers. 

"Fine. I'm heading for the second floor to gain some height. Should be no harder than shooting fish in a barrel," she says with that wry humor Steve's come to expect from her, only this time it holds an undercurrent of worry.

"Piece of cake," he replies, and then he's straightening up, swinging his shield onto his back.

That's when Bucky finds himself automatically reaching out, metal fingers grasping one of the straps of Steve's uniform and yanking him back.

"Jesus Rogers, you got a death wish or something?"

"We're wasting time, Buck," Steve says impatiently, pushing his hand away. "I need to-"

"No," Bucky interrupts, feeling the mechanics of his arm click and whirl as his grip tightens. "You've got a team for a reason. Use me - use _us_ ," he quickly corrects, and he's not sure why the slip leaves him feeling awkward. Uneasy. Fucking _embarrassed_. "Not everything's gotta be a one-man death mission."

The set of Steve's jaw goes hard and rigid until a muscle in his cheek jumps, and he's so goddamned stubborn, Bucky thinks it's a miracle he hasn't hit the guy yet. Might actually knock a little sense into him if he did.

They hold eye contact, steady and unwavering until Steve finally looks away. 

"Don't do anything stupid," he grumbles, "and I cover you the whole time, got it?"

Bucky reaches for the gun in his thigh holster and loads a fresh clip. The weight of the weapon feels good in his hand. Reassuring. Comforting.  "Yeah, yeah. You ready, Captain?"

Steve nods; the ghost of a barely-there smile playing at his lips. "Ready, Sergeant." 

* * *

 

**IV.**

He’s absently leafing through a copy of _Wired_ \- courtesy of who else but Stark – when Steve comes shuffling into the room; freshly showered, clad in sweatpants, and looking like hell.

“What happened to you?” Bucky questions bluntly, eyes climbing up and away from the page to stare at him.

Steve groans and eases himself down onto the far side of the couch like he’s every inch the 97-year old he technically is.

“Sparring with Thor,” he explains; the grimace on his face slowly easing into a content sigh when his body hits the cushions.

Bucky gives up on the magazine, tossing it onto the coffee table (he’s not inept when it comes to modern-day tech, but reading endless pages of it is fucking _boring_ ). “What’re you doing picking a fight with a god? You had to know you were gonna lose.”

“I didn’t lose,” Steve says, sounding almost offended that Bucky would even suggest such a thing. “I had him on the ropes.”

_...I had him on the ropes._

The force of the memory hits Bucky hard, and it’s so consuming, so vivid, he has to close his eyes until the line between past and present falls back into place.

When he comes out of it, blinking and disoriented, Steve’s concerned face is flooding his vision. He’s leaning close, gripping Bucky’s shoulder hard and repeating his name. “Buck...hey, Buck? Are you okay?”

His head’s throbbing and he feels faintly nauseous but Bucky swallows it down, mechanically nodding his head. “Yeah,” he says thickly. After a pause to clear his throat, the words sound a little more believable. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Do you need water? Pain meds? I could call Bruce-”

“Jesus, Rogers. I said I’m fine, alright?” Bucky replies sharply, and the minute it leaves his mouth, he wishes he could take it back.

Steve’s face clouds with pain and he immediately drops his hand, leaning back and putting as much distance as possible between their bodies. He opens his mouth, but Bucky beats him to the apology.

“I’m sorry.” He sighs, bows his head and roughly scrubs his hand over his face.

Steve says nothing and the room feels suffocatingly quiet until Bucky speaks again, and this time, his voice is smaller, more tentative.

“I’m trying,” he says, glancing up at Steve through the fringe of his hair. “Can you give me time?”

Steve’s throat works like he’s trying to hold himself together. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Yeah, Buck. Anything you need.”

* * *

 

**V.**

“What the hell did you do to yourself this time?”

“Nothing,” Steve claims, “I was getting groceries just like I said.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up, skepticism plainly written on his face. “So why’s there blood on your shirt and no bags in your hands?”

Steve makes a face like he’s trying to figure out how to bend the truth and answer without outright lying. “I dropped them in an alley somewhere around 3rd and Crosby,” he finally admits.

“Jesus, Rogers.” His metal hand drags through his hair before he shakes his head, like he can’t quite believe just how easily trouble seems to find Steve. Half the problem’s probably that the dumb punk goes looking for it, Bucky figures.

“There was a guy,” Steve explains, as if that justifies it.

Bucky snorts. “Well I sure as hell figured it wasn’t the bread or milk that did that,” he says, nodding towards Steve’s stomach where a small patch of blood is blooming on his shirt.

Steve ignores his sarcasm. “He was giving a girl a hard time. I told him to back off but he wouldn’t listen. Things...escalated.”

“Yeah?” Bucky prompts. He’s already moving to the sink, grabbing a clean dish towel before tossing it in Steve’s direction.

“I chased him for a few blocks, we sort of got into it and he pulled a knife on me,” Steve says, adding a soft “thanks” when he catches the towel, pressing it to his stomach.

Bucky’s thoughts must be showing pretty clearly on his face because Steve takes a step closer, insisting, “It’s just a knick, nothing serious. Promise.”

Bucky swallows, looking away from the blood. “Sure. You know, if you want, I can patch you up. It’ll be just like old times.”

He isn’t sure why he says it. It just slips out; feels natural.

Steve manages to look shocked and hopeful and heartbroken all at once, and it makes Bucky’s stomach clench with a feeling he can’t quite describe. “You remember?” He asks uncertainly.

“I...I think so?” Bucky frowns, wracking his brain but all he can see is a faint image in his mind; the soft, faded edges of an old memory. Black eyes. Bandages. Bloody knuckles. A voice – his own? – chiding, upset but not unkind as he wipes away sweat and dirt and blood. _Sometimes I think you like getting punched_.

“It’s okay,” Steve says, drawing him out of his head and back to the present. “If you don’t remember it all,” he adds. “You don’t have to force it.”

Bucky sighs, long and weary and more than a little annoyed. “It’s like it’s all right there, and I just can’t...” he trails off, making a noise of frustration.

He doesn’t want to think about it; doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, so he’s grateful when Steve changes the subject, looking down at his stomach pointedly before asking, “Does that offer still stand?”

Bucky wets his lips; gives a jerky nod. “Yeah.”

So they set to work; Steve pulling off his shirt and Bucky grabbing the cotton swabs and alcohol, and when they’re seated at the kitchen table, he works quietly, diligently, carefully, as he wipes away the blood and affixes a wide butterfly bandage to the skin just above Steve’s left hip.

It all feels so familiar and yet so different, so foreign and remote, and when he’s done pressing the bandage in place, he can’t quite seem to draw away. Steve’s skin is warm and Bucky’s hand suddenly grows curious, sliding upwards until his palm’s resting over Steve’s heart, taking in the steady, constant beat.

Steve goes impossibly still beneath his touch but he doesn’t shrink away. Doesn’t tell him to stop. Doesn’t tell him to keep going either. He gives Bucky the freedom to do whatever he wants.

“Sometimes,” Bucky starts, and his voice is oddly husky; slow and careful as he works to pull the words from deep inside himself, “sometimes, I think you like getting punched.”

A heartbeat passes.

Steve stares at him.

And then he laughs.

The noise is raw and rough and heavy with emotion, and it’s one of the best things Bucky’s ever heard.

“Yeah,” Steve replies, grinning as he blinks back the gathering moisture in his eyes. “Yeah, I probably do.”

* * *

 

**VI.**

“Jesus, Rogers,” Bucky gasps, sliding his hand up Steve’s back until he’s tightening his fingers in his hair (it’s flesh-and-bone - always flesh-and-bone; never metal – he wants...fuck, he really wants to _feel_ this). “Holy fucking hell.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Steve questions, voice muffled from where his face is buried against the skin of Bucky’s neck.

When he laughs, it’s throaty and thick. “You’re a little shit, you know that?” He groans as Steve shifts over him; all hard and hot and smooth as his erection presses into Bucky’s thigh.

“Been called worse,” Steve says. “Mainly by you.”

“It’s called...good-natured...ribbing,” he barely manages to squeeze out the reply between labored breaths, and Steve’s hands are wandering now, dipping lower and lower until Bucky’s biting back a fresh string of profanities.

“So that’s what it is?” Steve grins down at him. It’s a knowing, shit-eating kind of grin and it makes Bucky’s chest swell until he feels like he can hardly breathe.

“That’s what it is,” Bucky confirms, and then he cranes his neck and kisses him, just so he’ll finally shut the hell up.

 


End file.
